Where There's Smoke

by Roscommon

This is now a series of memories and adventures that Stephanie has, looking back from the vantage of a long, well-lived life. It's a series of short stories, following from the original 'Where There's Smoke' in loose chronological order. I'm setting it to 'In Progress' so I can add new stories over time.

2. Giving Thanks

This story follows after 'Where There's Smoke' later in the same year. I'm told it needs a bit of a tissue warning...

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Giving Thanks

"So, Babe," his voice echoed in my earpiece as I answered my phone. "I can't help but notice that you're not here."

"Hi Carlos," I smiled. "It's almost scary how aware you are of your surroundings."

"Smartass." I heard the amusement in his voice. "Does he know you're stalking him yet?"

This time I laughed. "You know as well as I do that he should have listened to you. I mean, you basically ordered him to come."

"Steph, he's not a soldier anymore. He's an 80-year-old man who does not want to be moved." I heard him put his fob in the tray in the front hallway and then walk back to the kitchen. He was a little heavier on the cane, today; I could tell from hearing his gait.

"And when has something like that ever stopped me?" I countered. "And besides, he's not 80 years old; he's 76 just like you."

"Same difference, Babe. So, are you outside of his house, yet?" He turned the phone so I could see him in our kitchen. As I looked at my phone's screen, I saw one silver eyebrow raised in amusement as he sipped from a bottle of water.

"Okay Smartypants." I answered, pretending to frown. "Yes, as I'm sure you already know, my flight got into Greensboro about a half hour ago." After over 45 years of marriage, I was perfectly aware that he knew everything about me, even before I did.

But, I wondered if he actually knew where Tank lived.

So I continued, "But, Carlos, here's the thing. I just got to where his address says he lives, but it's a vacant lot." I looked over at the cab, which I was now paying to stay idling at the curb. The driver stared back at me. Probably he was waiting to see if I was going to turn into Urban-Guerilla Mary Poppins and pull a tent and a couple of folding camp chairs out of my purse.

"I mean, take a look." I held up my phone so Carlos could see where I was. "This is the address on Polk Street that you had in your directory. But unless he's turned into a stray dog, I don't think he lives here."

I heard Carlos pulling out his usual chair from the kitchen island. And I swore I heard a quiet but audible huff of air. In anyone else that wouldn't register, but this was Carlos. Street name Ranger Mañoso. That sounded suspiciously like a snort.

Suddenly this was very familiar.

"Oh. No. Way." I angled the phone to better see his face. "Tell me you don't have a fake 'parking lot' address listed for Tank on your tablet." He stared blankly back at me. The expression reminded me of our daughter Alena's first cat when he was hiding that he'd just hidden a mouse in the dining room.

I could see the sparkle in Carlos' eyes that he was pretending to mask.

"Omigod, I can't believe that I fell for that, after all these years." I shook my head as I watched his lips curl slightly into a smile. "Does Tank even live in Greensboro?" I asked, incredulous, as I headed back to the taxi. "Did you know I was heading here the whole time?"

"The airplane ticket from Trenton to Greensboro was a slight clue, Babe."

"Ughh!" I rolled my eyes and heard him chuckle.

"Get back in the cab, Steph. I'll tell the driver how to get there."

The cabbie, probably disappointed that the tent and folding chairs were a no-show, opened the door again for me. After he got back in the driver's seat, I put Carlos on speaker and he told the taxi driver where I needed to go. Apparently Tank did live on Polk, but it was Polk Lane and was in some unincorporated area about 45 minutes east of the city.

When Carlos finished, the taxi driver asked, "You sure that's where this lady's expecting to go?"

"Yeah, it's cool." Carlos answered. "We have a close family friend who lives there."

"Okay man. She's paid the fare, so that's where we'll go." He pulled away from the curb and started driving.

While the cabbie drove, I switched the phone back to its earpiece, and then Carlos and I talked.

He told me about the set-up they completed today at the Veterans' Center to prepare for tomorrow afternoon's Thanksgiving meal. He'd be there bright-and-early again in the morning. I knew he was deeply satisfied that they'll be able to have a full meal for veterans at the center and also weekend visits with the veterans staying at the VA hospital.

He'd always been a good planner and motivator and was well-connected with donors. So they'd been able to do a lot more this year and I could tell Carlos was proud that he'd made a difference. At an age when most people would be settled into being grandparents, he'd taken an active role in the community. It sounded silly because he was my husband, but I was still inspired by him.

As I chucked over how he resolved a comic mix-up in an order – was it 100 crates of forks or 100 crates of pork? – he asked me, "So, what should I tell Alena?"

I knew what he was implicitly asking. Would I be back end-of-day tomorrow for Thanksgiving dinner? Our daughter Alena generously invited everyone in our family and also Les' family. She'd been cooking for at least a week. She was practically giddy over the fact that her father and I would be there, along with her brother Ricardo and his family. It was our first Thanksgiving in Trenton, not Miami, for over a decade.

In other words, translating quickly between the lines, I'd better be there. Fortunately, in an attempt to keep my daughter from having a panic attack that could register on the Richter scale, I'd already clued her into my plans. She knew I'd be arriving late, though I was absolutely determined that I'd be there for the holiday.

I reassured Carlos and gave him the highlights of the dinner contingencies our daughter had planned, and he chuckled. "Glad to hear it, Babe." He paused and the corner of his mouth was still tilted up in the mischievous smile that I loved. "But, so you know, I'm totally throwing you under the bus if you don't show."

"Carlos!" I protested while laughing. "Okay, well that's a deal. Just as long as you promise to give me excessive praise when I'm successful and back in time for dinner with my 'plus one'."

"Depends on who the 'plus one' is, Babe." He chuckled again. "But, there are two things in your favor, here. You always get your man and I always praise you." His voice got lower. "There is one catch, though, Mrs. Mañoso. I seem to recall that you have some squeamishness about the children seeing you in certain situations, so the 'excessive' part will have to wait until we get home."

I felt myself blush, even though I was already starting to think of some of the things we could do during that "excessive" time together. "It's a deal, Mr. Mañoso." I smiled.

At that point, I felt the cab take a sharp right turn. Suddenly our speed reduced and the car was bumping and swaying. I looked out the window; we were driving on dirt and gravel. Huge trees lined the road, with moss dangling from their branches and bushes crowding their trunks. When I spotted a fence made of logs, I suddenly imagined I'd next see Daniel Boone striding out to the road in frontier buckskins.

"Hey Carlos," I tried to say quietly, "we seem to be driving in the back woods. Is that right?"

The cabbie looked in the rearview mirror. "This is Polk Lane, ma'am."

At the same time, Carlos answered "Yeah, Babe. Tank's family lives out in the country. Unless it's changed, you'll drive a few miles through some old oaks and hickory trees, then there are clearings when you get close."

"Jeez, I feel like I'm in a different century here."

"Yeah Babe, you kinda are. But you'll be fine." He smiled at me and took a final swig from his bottle of water. "I don't know if you remember, but I'm headed to Haywood after I change my clothes. I'll be with Ricardo and I'll have my phone."

"Okay. Go have fun plotting against the bad guys. I'll call later tonight."

He barked out a laugh, and then we ended the call just as the cab took another turn down a long drive with rutted wheel tracks. The cab swayed and shuddered as we drove, probably topping out at about 5 miles an hour at that point. The trees were now more like giant landscape features than a forest; I saw what Carlos meant by clearings. I could see a few houses in the distance, and another one at the end of the drive.

As we got closer to that house, I could see a staircase and a wrap-around porch with a bunch of wooden furniture scattered on it. The house itself was a couple storeys tall with a few chimneys, and looked at least 100 years old. Probably older, though I wasn't a good judge of these things. The paint had faded and it looked like it was built in stages; the left side looked newer than the right, and parts of the second storey had different sized windows than others.

I looked back to the door, where a huge man filled the doorway. He looked like I remembered: Tall, dark skinned, bald, and shoulders twice as wide as everyone else's. The rest of his body matched his shoulders in size. The main difference was that he now had a paunch around his middle. That, and his beard stubble was silver.

His icy glare, though, hadn't changed one bit.

I got out of the cab, hitched my purse on my shoulder, and reached for my overnight bag. I heard Tank rumble, "I already told Ranger 'no'."

The cabbie looked at me, hesitating to close the passenger door in case I might come to my senses and bolt out of there. Clearly he didn't know me. I gave him a little finger-wave goodbye and started to walk up the path to the house. I heard the door close and then the cab started its bumpy passage back the way we'd come.

Looking up at Tank, I said, "Yeah, and telling Carlos 'no' might work, too. But when has telling me 'no' ever worked? I rolled my bag to the stairs and started up. "I have two tickets on Amtrak tomorrow morning. We can spend the rest of the afternoon and evening catching up, and then take the train up to Trenton just in time for dinner."

"And, I repeat. I told Ranger 'no'." Tank crossed his arms as he glared at me.

"And to quote my husband: 'Your point is?'" I smiled at up him then. Even though he was out-of-sorts, I was truly glad to see him. "Here's the deal. You're stuck with me until tomorrow morning. Then I'll take the train back to Trenton. If all goes well, you'll be with me. Otherwise, I'll be having fun on the train all by myself and you'll still be here sulking at what you're missing."

He shook his head, but finally uncrossed his arms and stepped back from the door. "All right. Well, come in then." He turned slowly and started walking toward the back of the house, leaving me to follow.

We ended up in the kitchen, a large room with wooden beams across the high ceiling. An old, darkened fireplace on the inside wall had hardware that looked like people might have actually cooked in it at one point. Alongside was a Formica counter on top of an old diningroom buffet. Then, on the next wall was one of those really wide, silver restaurant stoves and a double refrigerator.

On the far wall, a sliding glass door opened the room to the countryside out back. I realized I'd lost myself in the view when I heard Tank pull a chair across the floor. "There's cider in this pitcher, and coffee in the pot. Mugs in the cabinet above the sink." I nodded, but remained transfixed by the vista of land out the door.

Tank continued, "You know, I never appreciated that view until I moved back here. Used to be a small casement window on that wall." I heard him grunt as he sat down. "It makes it a bit drafty back here, but it's worth it." He shrugged. "Kitchen gets too hot, anyway."

Seeing him at the table, taking a sip from a mug, I remembered how his massive hands dwarfed everyday objects so they looked like children's playthings. But that's not what startled me. It was that he looked old. Usually when I saw one of us – Carlos, Les, myself – I saw someone who was vibrantly themselves, just inhabiting parchment skin and gray hair.

When I looked at Tank, though, I saw an old man instead of an old friend. It wasn't just the silver stubble or rheumy eyes, or even the slight tremor of his hands. No, it was the slump of his shoulders, the look in his eyes like he wasn't really here with me.

The floor squeaked under the linoleum as I walked back to the table. Sitting down, I said, "You're right. It's an amazing view. If I lived here I'd probably start and end my day right here, looking out. Some of those trees are huge; they must be really old."

After a moment he replied, eyes still focused far away, "Yeah, it's old land. Going back in the records, we can find our family living here since at least 1795." He paused again. "There's a 'Pierre, blacksmith and stablehand' listed in Beauregard family records back in 1807."

I was touched, and a bit amazed, that he'd shared something so personal with me. An olive branch, of sorts. "That's amazing, Tank. But, why don't you like being called Pierre?"

"Don't mind it these days. When I was young, I didn't want to be held down by all that history. But, mostly it was because 'Pierre' was a sissy name when I joined the Army. And the name of a Confederate general, though at least he's from Louisiana, not here."

He paused, still looking through the window. "But, no. I like the name Pierre. It means something in our family. I just didn't particularly like having it as my own name. The name 'Tank' suited me better."

I smiled, understanding what he meant. I'd always liked my name, but I remembered hearing that I'd almost been named Edna, after my grandmother. Though I loved my Grandma Mazur, there's no way I'd have wanted to go through life with what felt like an old-lady name. I'd have chosen an alias before second grade.

I heard Tank snort. "Yeah, you'd have chosen Diana Prince, like Wonder Woman."

I laughed. "Out loud, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess some things don't change, huh?"

I laughed and saw that Tank was finally looking at me. His face was calmer than before, though his eyes were assessing me.

"Hey Tank, speaking of things that don't change, do you have a place where I can go freshen up?"

He nodded slowly. "There's a spare bedroom at the head of the stairs, first door on the right. The bathroom is the next door down the hall. There should be extra towels in the closet." As I stood, he added, "If you don't mind, I'll wait down here. Those stairs are hell on my knees. Once in the morning and once at night are enough." I nodded and grabbed my overnight bag, headed back to the stairs.

I'd remembered about his knees. Shortly before the mishap that had ended her life, Lula told me that he couldn't really bend them anymore without pain. She'd said he was looking into knee replacements, and maybe some reconstructive surgery for the shin bone that hadn't healed right. Eleven years later, I wondered if he never got the surgery because Lula wasn't there to help him anymore.

I found the small but charming guest room, with its double bed and one of those thin, white tufted bedspreads that I associated with old-lady houses. I located the towels and headed to the bathroom to wash my face. Some moisturizer, a light application of foundation and mascara, and I was set to tackle the rest of the day. In the hallway, I peeked behind several doors, finding other bedrooms but no sign of anyone living in them.

As I clattered back downstairs, I wondered how I was going to reach Tank. I saw what Carlos meant when he said that Tank was a man who didn't want to be moved. My husband had unsuccessfully tried several times to get Tank to visit, even if only for a weekend. Well, I'd resolved that Tank was going to join us for Thanksgiving this year. Immovable force, meet irresistible object.

"Hi Tank," I bustled back into the kitchen. "This house is even bigger inside than it looks from the front." I grabbed a mug from the cabinet and poured myself some cider before joining him at the table.

He looked over to me and says, "Yeah. Too big."

I paused, my mug halfway to my lips, and he sensed my confusion. "Too many rooms, too many stairs, not enough heating in the winter or AC in August." He continued quietly. "My nephew's boy, Patrice, is busting out of their house a quarter mile down. I'm thinking of buying a double-wide and letting him have this house." He took a long sip. "It's time for a new generation, and this old gal will appreciate having the voices of children again."

I nodded. "So, Tank, won't you please come back with me for Thanksgiving? Just for the long weekend? With Alena, Ricardo, and Raul all with us, for once, it would really feel complete if you were there, too."

He sighed. "I'm sure you've figured this out, Bomber, but I'm not exactly the life of the party these days."

"Oh, c'mon Tank. If we wanted entertainment we'd hire a magician or rent one of those bouncy houses. What we want is to be together under one roof. With you there, too." I thought back to when Thanksgiving had come to mean so much to me. It was when we lived in Brussels for a year, working with NATO. As we got closer to the date in November, I suddenly realized it wasn't a European holiday.

And, without it, November just felt cold. A season when the trees were bare and there was a whole month left before the bright lights and laughter of Christmas. Though Raul was still a baby, Ricardo and Alena were already in fourth and sixth grades, respectively. Well, whatever they called the grades in the French Academy they were attending. Anyway, they'd asked if we could give special thanks this year because their daddy had made it back safely from the dangerous mission that had started the NATO contract.

And yes, indeed, we were very much giving thanks. So I arranged for them to be out of school, I reached out the other US expats to find out where to buy yams and cranberry sauce, and we had Thanksgiving dinner in our townhouse in the Etterbeek district. It's still one of my favorite family memories, and this year Tank is going to join us. He just hasn't figured it out yet.

I heard Tank shift in his kitchen chair. He crossed his arms and then surprised me by saying, "Well, you've come all this way. I imagine you want to go visit Lula."

I was momentarily at a loss for words as I tried to battle the tears that started welling up in my eyes. I finally managed to say, "Yes, Tank, that would mean a lot to me. If it's possible."

"Yep. Just down that path you see off to the right." He levered out of his chair, and then we both went to the sliding door. Outside, we walked along the path, which was an old stone walkway that passed back into a wooded area. After what felt like about a half mile, we entered a clearing.

The graveyard was old, with weathered stones and crosses in haphazard rows. Several large trees guarded the perimeter and a profusion of overgrown shrubs and plants probably scented the air with flowers in warmer weather. It was obviously maintained, but not a pristine landscape like where my folks were buried. I'd never before been to a graveyard on private land, but I liked it. It smelled of dirt, trees, grass. Like life. It was in the autumn of its days – just like us.

He stopped in front of a modern headstone, one of the few in the yard. It was Lula. A large jasmine leaned over the stone from behind and plants surrounded it. A huge, fresh bouquet rested against the stone. Of course: It was the day before Thanksgiving so Tank had put flowers at her resting place.

I sighed. "I miss Lula, too, big guy." I moved a bit closer to him and put my hand in his. "Whenever she could, she was always there for me. She was one of my best friends." I was still battling tears but I'd gotten better at this. At my request, Carlos had taught me how to control my weeping to avoid distracting everyone.

"The way she saw it, you saved her life." Tank rumbled. "You didn't care that she'd been a 'ho. You looked at her and saw a friend." After a long pause, he added, "I don't know if I'd have been wise enough to look at her twice if I hadn't seen her through your eyes first."

I squeezed his hand. "Well, she didn't always make it easy." I felt him chuckle slightly, though he didn't make a sound. "But waiting for her to un-confuse herself was always worthwhile in the end. She and Mary Lou were the most loyal girlfriends I ever had."

Tank's sigh was loud. He looked down at his feet. "Yeah, could've wished she'd have been a little less loyal, a little less protective." He went to a nearby stone bench and sat down heavily. After a moment, I joined him.

I knew what he was remembering. It was eleven years ago when Tank and Lula went out to get last minute supplies on the night before Thanksgiving. While checking out, Tank spotted a robbery in progress in the liquor store across from the North Trenton Quick Stop. He told Lula to stay behind, but she'd spotted a second gunman and rushed to the door to warn Tank. Of course, he had known about the second gunman, but couldn't get a new line-of-site quickly enough after Lula had moved.

Carlos and I got the call at our daughter Julie's house, just outside Miami. He'd chartered a flight that night, and we were in Trenton before the dawn. But, we were too late. Lula had passed away in the emergency room. We'd joined Les and our old friend Hal at Tank's and Lula's house, and stayed through the memorial ceremony. It took both Carlos and Hal to keep Tank standing after the service.

For the burial, Tank brought Lula down here to his family home. He wouldn't let any of us come with him, insisting that he needed to be alone with her for awhile. We also knew his sister Marie was ailing and he wanted to be with her. What we hadn't realized at the time was that he planned to stay here, leaving Trenton and all of us behind.

Meanwhile eleven years later, we sat lost in our memories as the sun started to set. The air was getting brisk, but nowhere near as chilly as nights in Trenton had been. The birds that had been twittering, fighting over berries in the bushes, finally stilled.

Tank startled me when he commented, "It's this Friday, you know. The actual date."

I'd forgotten that. Thanksgiving is always a Thursday, not a specific calendar date, so I'd lost track of the date when Lula had actually passed. I squeezed his hand again. "Tank, thank you for bringing me here. I'm glad this is where Lula is. I feel so much better having visited. This feels like a place where she would have felt at home."

He nodded and was silent for awhile longer. Finally, he startled me again when he squeezed my hand back. "I just wasn't ready for her to be taken home so soon, before me. Never imagined it that way." After a long pause, he added in a low voice, "Getting cold out, we should go back."

As Tank used his arms to push himself off the bench, I looked behind us. The grave there was still fresh, a mound of dirt still exposed amidst the groundcover and autumn plants. Quietly I said, "I wish I'd gotten to meet your sister Marie." Tank turned and glared at me. I knew it was supposed to be a forbidding look, but he should've known after all these years that a menacing glare wouldn't deter me. "Tank, I know about Marie. I'm sorry."

"How?" he growled.

"You know me; I'm nosey. I read the news online every day." I remembered the moment I'd seen the obituary last weekend, that Marie Fletcher née Beauregard had died at 69 after a decade-long struggle with cancer, leaving her older brother Pierre and several cousins.

I paused, squinting up at him, silhouetted in the sunset's glow. "We've missed you, but I'm glad you got to spend time with her." His eyes were glinting, this time from unshed tears. I started slowly down the path back to the house.

To give him time to compose himself, I kept talking. "You know, mostly I read about places that we've been, like Brussels and London. But I still have some of the search programs. Carlos pretends he doesn't know, but Ricardo sometimes slips searches to me. He embarrasses his new hires telling them his mom is still the best at finding anyone, anywhere."

I remembered something that Tank might enjoy. "In fact, Ricardo once slipped me the 'Jimmy Hoffa' file as a joke, figuring it would keep me busy for months." I heard Tank snort.

"Yeah, thank you." I replied. Remembering that day, I started to laugh. "I mean, sheesh, Carlos had to take his own son aside. I thought Ricardo was going to hyperventilate when Carlos told him that the three of us had solved that mystery within a few weeks, years ago. And that the 'parties requesting the search'..." I finger-quoted the phrase, "demanded that the answer never get revealed after they found out where he really was."

After a few steps, Tank asked, "Does Ricardo know?"

I snorted. "No, Carlos completely stonewalled him. Carlos said he swore to never tell the location. And that he never goes back on an oath. Ricardo argued with him, but Carlos wouldn't budge." I paused, still amused by the memory. "Of course, they're peas-in-a-pod, so the conversation consisted of about four sentences stretched out over about a half hour while they both stared at each other with their hands steepled."

I heard Tank begin to chuckle, so I continued. "So, of course now Ricardo tries to trip me up, seeing if he can get me to fess-up where we found Hoffa. But it's more of a joke at this point. He sometimes gives me cases to search where he's doped the background to include obvious Hoffa details."

Giggling, I added, "The best was when they had to dig up the septic tank in their yard this past summer. He sent me a photo of his sons Pierre and Ric Jr. standing next to the hole with shovels, still in their school uniforms and wearing a couple of huge Army Surplus helmets. It was captioned 'Hoffa Hunters, the Next Generation'."

At that, Tank burst into laughter, in earnest. I'd forgotten what an enveloping, bass laugh he had. I patted him on the back, looking toward the house that was finally in sight. It was wrapped in the cloak of evening darkness, gazing calmly out over the Beauregard land as it had obviously done for a couple hundred years.

"If you come back to Trenton with me, you can see them too. Ricardo came up with his family from Miami to be with us. You can check out how much your namesake Pierre has grown. He's 12, but almost as tall as I am."

With no children of their own, Tank and Lula had been especially close to all our children when they were growing up. Lula told me that, when Ricardo called to say they were naming their son Pierre Carlos, it was one of the few times she'd seen Tank cry. It was one of the proudest days of his life.

"Is Pierre still the only grandchild to have your blue eyes?" Tank asked.

"Yeah, the Mañoso soulful chocolate-brown won out over the Mazur baby blues in our kids and grandkids." I laughed. "Everyone except for Pierre. We're placing bets on our youngest, Raul, since his fiancée is blue-eyed and Irish. We're thinking maybe, just maybe, we may see another blue-eyed Mañoso one of these days."

Tank laughed again, softer this time.

"So, Tank. You're coming back with me tomorrow morning, right?"

He reached out to steady me on the path, which I was having difficulty seeing in the waning light. Darned cataracts. "Woman, you are relentless!" he objected through his soft laughter.

"Yeah," I smiled impishly. "You know me."

We got back to the house and I watched as he used the handrail to maneuver himself up the stairs. He didn't hesitate in his approach; he was obviously used to doing this. In fact, I could see where he'd reinforced the handrail with metal hardware and plates to take his weight.

"Hey Tank," I asked, "your knees; is that from when the federal fugitive in Barbados blew up the boat you were in?"

"Yup. Thirty years ago. Didn't bother me for a long time. Now, it hurts almost more than it did back then."

"Why don't you look into knee replacements? The Rangeman supplemental policy covers it. I think I felt about twenty years younger after I got my right knee replaced. Les got his right shoulder replaced and, even though he was a big baby, he swears he'd do it all over again. And jeez, I remember you said that you had two grandparents and your great-grandfather who lived to be 100 years old. That's a long time to have bad knees."

"Just doesn't seem worth it, I guess."

As I thought about what he'd just said, I stopped at the top of the stairs. I waited for him to reach the landing and get his balance. Then I put my hand over his on the railing. "Tank, you're worth it. To me. To us." He's pursed his lips in what Lula used to call his back-woods mule look. I wasn't going to patronize him by saying that it's what Lula would want too, though I knew that was true.

Instead, I just said, "You matter Tank. If you ever doubt that, you're going to find me back here on your doorstep to tell you otherwise." A cagy look briefly flashed under the otherwise forbidding expression on his face. "Yeah, okay, or you'll find me at the doorway of your double-wide trailer. Or outside your yurt on the steppes." I see a bit of humor mix with exasperation on his face. "And you know I can do it too."

"Yeah, Bomber, you've always been a scary woman."

I put my hands on my hips and glowered at him. "So, Tank, go pack your bags. Our train leaves at 8:15 tomorrow morning." He was still glaring, but I could tell this was a manufactured expression, not true anger. "Tank, you know this is important to me if I'm getting up at 6:30 in the morning to catch that train." He'd started to laugh under his breath when I added, "Meanwhile, I'll look in your kitchen to see if there's something I can throw together for dinner."

He laughed a bit more loudly at that. I turned to scowl at him, thinking he was busting my cooking skills. But, he just shook his head. Obviously he still had ESP. "No, Steph. Your cooking's fine by me. But I got you covered on that front. While you were freshening up, I fielded a mess of texts about who was in the cab. Patrice's wife Leona should be here in about fifteen minutes with any number of pans and casseroles."

"Oh jeez. I think I need to go and freshen up all over again."

This time Tank put his hand over mine, as he led me back to the kitchen. "No need Steph. My family are all country folk. They don't much care how people look. It's who you are inside that matters. He added with a small but relaxed smile, "All the heart you got inside, you already have everything that matters."

Shortly after, I heard a truck crunching down the road, and then a tall, raw-boned woman let herself in the sliding glass door. She introduced herself as Leona as she handed me a large covered dish. Leona shooed me away as she started setting platters, plates, and silverware on the table. Meanwhile, a number of children of varying ages filed in with large covered bowls, pans, and a pie plate. Within ten minutes, a complete meal was arrayed on the table, on the stove, or in the refrigerator. Tank's cavernous kitchen was suddenly full of life.

I caught Tank's eyes as he looked around, nodding to himself. Leona stepped away from the table and turned to me. "Now if you need anything you ain't got here, just have Uncle Pierre give us a call." She then led the children in a round of "Nice to meet you," as she pointed them back toward the door.

Puzzled, I asked, "But wait, aren't you staying to eat with us?"

She smiled kindly, "Nah, just for y'all. Just want to make sure Old Uncle don't waste away now Auntie Marie ain't here." She patted Tank on the arm as she shepherded the remaining children through the door. With that, they were gone, and I heard my stomach growl. Tank looked at me with amusement, shaking his head.

"Bomber, let's feed the beast." He chuckled into the silence and sat down. We pulled out and arrayed our various pills on the table like the old folks we were, and then filled our plates. As we ate, I caught him up on news he'd missed over the years. By the time we finished eating and put everything away, I was ready to sleep. But, I wasn't done yet.

So, after Tank finished his slow, rolling motion up the stairs, I grabbed his arm. "You are going with me tomorrow morning, right?"

"Yeah, Bomber. I know I don't stand a chance against any plan that you'd travel all this way to put in motion. When I found out you're getting up at 0630 tomorrow morning, I knew I was sunk."

I laughed and said goodnight as I entered the guest room. Tucking into bed, I reached for the phone to call Carlos just as his ringtone sounded. I answered, smiling, and smugly told him that I'd be 'plus one' tomorrow evening. I also told him about the peace I felt at finally getting to visit Lula's final resting place. He nodded, glad for me, and then quietly shared that both of Ricardo's sons would be joining him tomorrow at the Veteran's Center, along with Alena's youngest son Marco.

I could tell he was proud. And I was so happy for him. I remember from my own childhood that those are the things that become memories for a lifetime. As we ended the call, Carlos said he'd arrange for someone to pick us up tomorrow morning at Tank's, and again at the Trenton Transit Center tomorrow evening. When I put my head on the pillow, I knew I would fall asleep in seconds.

The next morning, the promised limo appeared at Tank's door like clockwork, and we rode to the train station in the quiet early morning. We boarded the first-class car and settled in for the trip. It was going to be several hours – we wouldn't arrive until after 6pm. But I knew that Tank couldn't easily maneuver in airplanes anymore. I'd brought magazines, my tablet, and a game console to keep me occupied.

After a little over an hour, Tank went to the club car to get some food. And probably to get away from my fidgeting. Sitting still for hours has never been my best thing. I put in the phone's earpiece and called Carlos. As he answered I heard clattering and muffled shouting, and then a door closed.

"Hey."

"Hey Carlos. What's going on? You already hard at work?"

"You know it, Babe." As he answered, I checked out his image on my screen. He was wearing an old, long-sleeved Army T-shirt fitted comfortably against his still broad frame, standing in what was clearly a storeroom."Nothing to keep me in bed late, today," he said, eyebrow raised, with that slight smile that I loved.

"You know, same here. I was so bored that I decided to get up at 6:30 for coffee. Did you know that the sun is actually up then?" I smiled at my own joke.

"Good to know," I heard him chuckle under his breath. Then he acted like he was trying to see behind me on the phone. "So, looks like Tank has Amtrak furniture."

"Very funny, ha ha." I answered, rolling my eyes. "I am happy to report that Tank and I are on the train, speeding our way back to Trenton even as we speak. We just passed Durham." I said, proudly. Then I added, with a snort, "He's wandered off to buy out the food-guy in the club car. Eating enough for four Steph-sized people at dinner last night apparently was just something to tide him over 'til the next meal."

Carlos tilted his head minutely and I saw humor glinting in his eyes. "So, club car? Or rabbiting from the luggage car?"

I snorted again, shifting in my seat so I could gaze out the window, just in case..."First off, who gets out of bed that early and comes all this way with a big suitcase, just so he can tumble his geriatric ass painfully out of a train in the middle of nowhere?" Carlos tilted his head back and forth slightly, as though thinking about the question. His eyes were still gleaming with humor.

"Okay. Well maybe before I let him leave the car I made him swear an oath that he wouldn't try to escape."

Carlos chuckled. "So, have you told Tank yet about the house down the street?"

"What house?" I asked innocently.

"The one that's about to be listed for sale. The one you've looked into buying without letting me know." I heard the amusement in his voice. "The one that's like ours, without any stairs."

I rolled my eyes. "It was just a casual conversation." He looked at me, one silver eyebrow raised again. "Well, so maybe I talked to the realtor, who happened to be there, about how much flexibility they had in the price and what the down-payment would be. But… okay, no I haven't mentioned that to Tank." I pretended to be angry. "Or to you, either, for that matter. Sheesh!"

He smirked, and then I heard a crash that made Carlos look over his shoulder at the storeroom door. He looked back at me and said, "Hey Babe, I think I have to go get the troops back in line. We start serving at 1130 and I think we have some pre-battle jitters out there."

I laughed and then added, "Just promise me you'll get someone to take your picture wearing the serving apron later. You know that seeing you in charge in the kitchen gets me all in a state." I felt myself biting my lower lip. I couldn't help it; seeing my large, hardened husband preparing meals in the kitchen has always made me weak in the knees.

"Babe."

"Okay, okay. Go take care of the recruits. Say 'hi' to the kids for me."

He smiled. "Will do, Babe. Tell Tank that he's booked for the VA hospital visits tomorrow." He smirked as he angled toward the door behind him. "Tell him if he gives you any trouble on the train, I'll put him on Lester's team."

I laughed again as he ended the call. After that, I gazed absently out the train window, watching the neighborhoods and countryside roll by. Tank eventually returned with a large bag full of food. When he pulled out a small box of donuts and a coffee for me, I told him that he always was my favorite Merry Man. His booming laugh filled the train car.

Hours later, after a world-class nap, the train pulled into Trenton station. Tank quickly assembled our bags in the aisle and we made our way out of the train. It had gotten noticeably colder since when I left yesterday, and had just started snowing when we stepped outside. The first snow of the year. I saw Tank look up and mutter, "Fuck."

"Jeez Tank, you're such a curmudgeon. This is magic. It's the first snow of the year, the promise of all the snowmen, snowball fights, and sledding of the season. And it's falling on Thanksgiving. This is too perfect." I reached out to catch some flakes on my hand. "It's beautiful. We're in a frosty Thanksgiving snow-globe."

I heard him mumble, "It's the first snow of the year, the promise of falling on your ass and having car accidents for months. And Bomber thinks it's beautiful."

I laughed again. "Tank, how long have you known me? Of course I think it's beautiful. Stick around and I'll convince you." I smiled as I spotted our Rangeman driver, who took our bags and helped us into an SUV. Tank didn't stand a chance. I knew this: He'd be loving snow again, soon. Even if only from inside a toasty room looking out through a window.

Later I could explain to him about how we could spend the winter where it's warm – Miami for us, Greensboro for him – and then convene back home in Trenton as soon in the spring. For now, he was here, and that was enough.

After the short ride from the train station, we arrived at Alena's house where cars filled the driveway and clustered along the curb. The house itself was well-lit, warm light glowing from the windows. Even though the house was closed against the chill, I could hear the sound of conversation and laughter from the sidewalk, along with music in the background.

As Tank readied his rolling motion to climb up the stairs, I saw a silhouette behind the door's frosted glass and drape. It opened, and my daughter Alena stood there. Her face lit immediately. Instead of seeing a 45-year-old woman, it was like she was suddenly five years old again, viewing the Christmas tree first thing in the morning. "Uncle Tank, Uncle Tank! You came!" She rushed down the stairs and hugged him, joy on her face.

Gruffly, but with a smile, Tank replied, "Baby girl. Now what's all this fuss about?"

I saw more faces in the doorway. My granddaughter Cece let out a squeal and then clattered down the steps to join her mother. She remembered Tank, too, from when she was a little girl. Then my son Ricardo stepped into view with his sons and started to smile.

Behind him, I saw Carlos in the doorway. As I caught his eyes, he smiled his full 200-watt smile, just for me. I smiled back and he winked. Over the hubbub, I saw him mouth "Babe, you never disappoint."

I felt my heart swell with pride. And with the happiness of being surrounded by my family. It was going to be the best Thanksgiving yet.